My Best Ideas Always Happen When I Run

I call the shoes "yoots." They're incredible–bright orange and designed specifically for new runners who want to maintain or recapture their Yoot. They have more cushion and more flash than other running shoes because new runners need cushion and flash. They're a gateway shoe engineered from the ground up to address the physical challenges of a new running habit and safely bridge that precarious gap between couch potato and 5-K. Tremendous shoes. I have no idea how they actually feel. They don't exist. That hasn't stopped me from thinking about Yoots for years. Usually around mile two. If I'm in really good shape, the idea occurs to me by mile three. Yoots are my ongoing, midrun "really good idea."

Oh, and I have a television show. Actually, it's in development. Okay, I develop it whenever I'm not thinking about Yoots. Usually by mile two. Open with a long shot of a heat-soaked road under a simmering U2 intro (I gotta call those guys). Potato-chip cannons blast from either shoulder (like rock-concert confetti cannons–a new technology built specifically for the show). I emerge, running through the cascade of chips where I'm joined on either side by fitter, better-looking running experts–a doctor, a trainer, Kara Goucher, Shalane Flanagan. We're all wearing Yoots. First there was The View, then came The Chew, now comes The Phew. In each episode, we select unsuspecting contestants from malls and restaurants around the country, ambush them mid-burger bite, and challenge them on the spot to take their first run ever (phew!). At the end of each show, we choose people with the most promise and train them to compete in a race that covers beaches, roads, and mountain trails, detailed in sweeping helicopter shots. By the end, they all get a lot healthier, and a lot better-looking. The winner of the race gets a lot of money.

But before I get a hold of Bono, I have to just sit down and call the White House already. This really good idea has been bugging me the last couple of mornings. Running has no political favorites; it's good for Republicans, Democrats, Independents, and everyone else. Every modern president has tried at some point in office to get the country off the couch and onto their feet. The current president's youthful love letters to running were quoted in a recent book. The first lady has made exercise her platform. I used to hate exercise! Now I think it's mostly fine! We could help each other get the word out! I gotta call those guys and see if they want to go for a run!

I live in a small town in Pennsylvania. I'm a simple man with a wife and three kids. I've never met Kara, Shalane, Bono, the president, or the first lady. So what is it about a midday run that makes an otherwise normal individual think he can charge at windmills?

Even before I started running I had heard of the "runner's high"–a mythical hall of miracles where rock stars and presidents seem like neighbors and, for a moment, the entire world makes perfect sense. I didn't believe in it. I thought the runner's high was just another carrot dangled in front of nonrunners to entice them into trying a miserable activity. The runner's high was essentially something people felt when they stopped running, which meant as a nonrunner, I was high all the time. Breathing normally in a sweat-free body with muscles that don't ache was its own kind of high. But not one that ever made me think I could call the White House. The fact that the thought regularly occurs in tandem with unremarkable midweek runs leads me to the undeniable conclusion that I have endorphins and I know how to tap into them. The only logical next question is, are revelations made within the runner's high useful in the real world? And speaking of the real world, which one is that exactly–the one that's stripped down and open and clear in the middle of a run or the one that's cluttered and dazed and agitated in the middle of a traffic jam?

I spent a great deal of sober time in college assuring bombed or by other means addled friends that their really good ideas weren't stupid–not deeply stupid, anyway. If the runner's high is just a better kind of addled, it's probably only fair that I take a turn in the genius chair. What better way to land there than with running? The towering drunk is hard to tolerate, but the overly optimistic runner has earned his delusions and must be given a pass. Look at you, Mr. Sweaty Bliss, and your idea for a new kind of hovercraft!

Susan knows better than to react strongly to anything I say while still dripping with sweat. She doesn't flinch on a Monday when I'm sitting on the porch, staring forward in a postrun daze, and suddenly blurt out, "Let's sell this place and live in a houseboat."

After a few miles on Wednesday, "We should seriously get a cow."

On Friday, "I'm gonna finally read Crime and Punishment."

And after Sunday's long run, "What we really need in the back yard? An observatory, a huge telescope, and 20 new friends. We'll get some wine. Let's really do it."

"Let's talk about it after your shower," Susan usually says. And we never do. The really good ideas have a tendency to soak into the towel while you're drying off. Like spots in a lens as it passes the sun, the flashes of brilliance are artifacts of exertion. They're right in front of you, but you can't touch them, and once the run is over, they're mostly gone.

Mostly but not entirely. There are old friends I've contacted after thinking of them on runs, and I've remembered the location of misplaced items, sorted out demands and priorities, found the right words in difficult times, the simple solutions to complex problems–all within the bright clear light of a run.

And just because you don't do something doesn't mean it's a bad idea. I don't believe there is a person alive whose life wouldn't improve by several factors with the addition of a houseboat, a cow, a classic novel, a telescope, 20 new friends, and wine. That's the kind of real world that makes the traffic-jam world survivable. Every idea is wacky until it works. Every dreamer is a fool until the dream comes true. And I'd trust a wacky, dreaming runner before any other kind of wacky dreamer. Which reminds me...

The race is called the Delicious Newbie Dash. It's a 5-K rolling out across all major cities and it works like this: You get to sign up only if it's your first race ever. If you've raced before, you can still sign up as long as you bring a first-timer to join you. All finishers get a doughnut. Top finishers in each age group get a year's supply of Yoots–Asics makes them, or will make them, I should say. I'll just call and they'll cheer on the other end of the line. I'll let them know Brooks and Nike already want in but my ears are open. That is, once I set that up with Brooks and Nike–calls I'll make if I can somehow get them in before the shower.

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